


pull you in (in, in)

by tribunal



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 17:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16179980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribunal/pseuds/tribunal
Summary: When Joseph’s eyes dance on Asya’s, they stay there momentarily, a knowing sort of glimmer entering them. The chill along her spine is not imagined that time, not paranoia, butknowledge.(Pre-canon, for Hope County Gothic 2018, week one.)





	pull you in (in, in)

It goes like this: One day, baby sister’s chattering away on her phone while older sister preps dinner, fresh acrylics tick tick ticking against the ancient wood of the older sister’s coffee table every so often, making a worrisome trade between taking out annoyance on the table and out on her own relaxed hair, thick black locks spilling out over the grip of spindly umber fingers. 

Older sister doesn’t bother to chastise her, not when she’s on a tear, not when she’s ripping into her harried assistant with accented Rs and flicked against the roof of her mouth, button nose wrinkled into a facsimile of disgust. She instead attends to their steaming pot of dinner in front of her, stirring gumbo with a wooden spoon that’s been in their family longer than either sister has drawn breath. Asya—sharp-eyed, long-limbed Asya—feels her mouth quirk upwards, the ghost of a smile staining full lips as younger sister Frey jabs at her phone. Fresh nail threatens to break off from the force she stabs at her screen—as if touch screen could properly convey fury—and drops her weight onto Asya’s aged couch with a sigh as if she were Atlas come to Earth.

”Asya,” Older sister’s name comes out as a heady groan, “They did it _again_.“

Asya herself lets out a noncommittal hum, adds in a spot more salt before repositioning herself, leaning her weight back; hunching over the food like she’s their late mother will do no favors for her back in the long run. “Eden’s Gate?“

The shriek of anger that comes from Frey is confirmation enough. She covers her face with a throw pillow, spitting mad with her displeasure.

Uncovers. “Every _goddamn time_ ,“ Recover. Another scream. Uncover. “Every _goddamn time_.“ Those French-tipped nails dig neat furrows into the pillow. “They pick up a property I’m planning on selling, regardless of law or claims or….or _anything!_ And complaining about it any gets me told,” Here, Frey’s voice raises, mocking. “ _You’ll have to ask Brother John about all that._ ” She waves her hands in annoyance. “Yeah, like he wasn’t a _fucking lawyer_ before he became a born-again _shitheel._ “

Asya intervenes, as is her wont, cupping gumbo on a spoon and lifting it to Frey to taste. “Here. Eat. Can’t deal with dickheads on an empty stomach.“

Frey closes her eyes as she takes it in, thoughtful hum prefacing her words. “Bit more Creole seasoning. What would Mom say?“

No longer does melancholy dot her vowels when she mentions their mother; Asya’s glad for the curative powers of time in this, at least. “Something like ‘ _I’m disappointed in you, chère, thought I taught you better._ ’“ She takes the spoon back from Frey, trying it herself before making a face. “And she did. Lord Almighty, I almost made us eat this?“

Frey’s face smooths, from fury pinching the almost cherubic features of her face to a big smile, teeth showing, familial dimples on display. “Not like you haven’t made worse, yeah?“

Not even bothering to look up from the pot, Asya snaps back, remark lacking heat: “Watch your fucking mouth.“

Younger sister holds her hands up in a pleading for mercy, slouches her weight back onto the couch as if she could burrow her way into it and find a reality where these “Eden’s Gate fuckers“ aren’t trying to rob the real estate agent blind. “Can’t you just…..I dunno, arrest them?“

”I’d love to, just to get some peace and quiet,” Comes Asya’s wry response, tipping the seasoning into the gumbo even as she speaks. “Sadly, they haven’t committed a crime.“

”Yet.” It’s petulant and makes her sound every bit the brat their mom accused her often of being, but Frey hasn’t let that stop her yet, so why not keep a good thing going? Asya’s sigh is legendary, one she’s perfected for all the six years between them.

”When you catch them in the act of an _actual_ robbery, let me know. I’ll happily clap cuffs on them for you, ‘k?”

Frey sniffs, displeasure still gleaming in the deep brown of her gaze. “I _suppose_ that’ll do just fine.“

Dinner that night goes swimmingly, Asya sending her sister home with two bowl’s worth of leftovers and a hearty well-wishing to see her next week.

 

 

 

The knock on her door is unexpected. Asya comes to wakefulness blearily, rubbing her eyes even as she checks her phone. _5 o’clock, who in the goddamn…?_ Another cheerful knock, shave and a haircut, rings out as she’s shuffling into slippers, realigning plaid pajama bottoms so they’re not halfway to falling off her ass. “Jesus wept, you got any idea what time it is?“ Her voice is groggy with remnants of sleep, arm slinging to shield her eyes from the just-rising sun even as she opens the door.

She’s met with the hopeful face of one of those Eden’s Gate folks, their symbol pinned to the front of her neatly-starched suit. Townsfolk call them “peggies“, but Asya’s met at least one or two people named as such in her life; none of them were the religious sort. This person in front of her’s just buzzing with unending enthusiasm, hands gripping “The Father’s word“ as if it were manna beamed directly from Heaven.

”It’s never too early to hear the word of Our Father!” Her eyes are glazed over with a manic light, hand only leaving her “word“ to flick back sparse blond bangs that have escaped (somehow) the severity of her bun. In stark contrast, Asya’s dreads are still firmly bundled under her silk cap; you wake her up before noon on her off day, you take what you get.

Her muscles bunch as arm falls from shielding her eyes to joining its twin in folding underneath her modest chest, adding in a flex of honed muscle lying underneath sienna skin for good measure. She’s a cop, intimidating on even her worst day and downright _frightening_ without coffee. Alas, if the missionary can sense the underlying danger in Asya’s being, she doesn’t bother—or care—to notice, barreling through Asya’s silence with all the grace of a bull in a china shop.

”Yes, indeed, the Father!” Here, she pauses, tearing up from mere mention of the man in question. “His grace extends to us all! He accepts you no matter your background or your being, no matter your sins or your sacrilege! Here!“ She thrusts out the book to Asya, motions slick with fervor. More silence from the Junior Deputy. “You don’t have to promise anything; the Word is a gift! But one we’re happy to share with you if you’d like to hear it in person!“

Ah, there it is. Asya plucks the book from the missionary’s grasp, large hand dwarfing the miniaturized copy of the book. In an effort to move the peggie along quicker, she flips through it, unsurprised when the front cover reveals a calendar of events for the month, the address, and a phone number to call for the “sick and shut in“. _Almost like a proper church, but this one hasn’t mentioned not a single god yet._ None of them do, Asya’s noticed in all her interactions with Eden’s Gate followers; they instead talk about _The Father_ with stars in their eyes and a devotion long since crossed into creepy.

She’s seen this Father before. He’s nothing but a hippie with a manbun and fashion sense as piss-poor as those glasses he dons. He’s spoken with Sheriff Whitehorse in earshot of her when they’ve picked up one of “his flock“ (what a crock) for disorderly content, disturbing the peace. Some overnight thing, but he always pokes his head in first thing in the morning, folds his hands in front of him, and offers _his most sincere apologies for the actions of his children. They are still yet wandering souls._ He smiles after, a little crooked and a lotta unsettling, but no one else gets a weirdo vibe like she does. Hudson called him the same as Staci’s last name but said Asya’s just paranoid.

But she can’t tell any of this to the doe-eyed missionary staring up at Asya as if in supplication. _Man alive_. “That it?“ She asks, nudging her broad shoulders so that the door closes a smidge. _Get the hint, peggie._

As if coming back to herself, the blond missionary claps her hands together. “Oh, of course! I hope to see you at a sermon sometime! Brother John is handling the next one and, oh, he just knows how to get praise and worship started!“

The name clicks, Asya hears it repeated back to her in her mind with Frey’s mocking inflection. _Bro-ther Jawn. Bruh-thehr Jawn. Oh, John._ Information to assist her baby sis; maybe they’ll go together so that Asya can be absolutely certain Frey won’t catch a charge on her watch?

To the woman, she offers a dismissive “a’ight, cool“ before closing the door in her face, paying no mind to the nagging voice of her mother in the recesses of her mind, berating her for her rudeness. Maybe when she’s more lucid, she’ll take it on the chin. But it’s five AM on her off day and she barely had time for preachers, much less ghosts.

 

 

 

It had been a small thing to suggest attending service with Frey, little sister already chomping at the bit to play at infiltration only to slap her intentions in Brother John’s face post-praise. “It’s the only plan I need, Asya.“ She murmured on the drive to the small, ramshackle church, eyes narrowed as she stared on the long stretch of asphalt. “Shame him in front of his people, make him give me back the business I need. Man that flossed up will wither; his dick’s inversely proportional to how much of one he can be.“

When they enter the chapel, though, Asya can feel a chill. Initially, she marks it up to the fall air, but it brushes along the back of her neck once more, causing a hard stone of disquiet to align within her stomach. The place is packed, filled wall-to-wall with bodies offering praise, closed eyes in rapture, mouths babbling in mindless tongues. And unlike when they were young, when their mother insisted on bringing them to church, these walls do not offer safety, _shelter for thee._

It feels like a prison.

But Frey will not be stopped, will not cease for even a moment’s sake, so—despite the wrongness sitting eerily along her spine—she takes a seat. Back to a wall, exit within sight. Training kicks in even now, especially in an unfamiliar setting with the wailing of human mouths for the intervening of divine hands, next to that which she needs to protect. A man leads the processions at the pulpit in front of them, breath coming in heavy pants as he discards that quilted jacket and undershirt, revealing marked and scarred chest. That bun Asya’s so mocked in her head has come askew, airy wisps of thin brown hair falling around his shoulders. If she blinks, squints her eyes just so, it’s almost as if the curtain reveals a halo, his own self-proclaimed status shimmering in shadows.

Frey elbows her in the side none-too-gently, taking her mind away from Joseph and the tears settling against his face. “That’s him on the right, smarmy fucker.“ Brown eyes follow the point of Frey’s jutted out chin, settle on…yikes. In comparison to the humility etched in the very bone of the prophet, _Brother John_ looks like an excess of status and misaligned wealth. A paler reminder of the deacons the sisters saw in their youth, preaching tithes before giving the bare minimum.

She already doesn’t like him.

That feeling is doubled when he—feeling the heat of anger in Frey’s gaze—turns his attention to the sisters, slick smile perching on thin lips, matching perfectly that oily, boastful appearance. He tilts his head towards them, a courteous expression completely at odds with his superfluous appearance, then tilts it towards his openly weeping brother as if to redirect their attention. 

_”Slimy fucker.”_ Frey mutters underneath her breath once more for good measure, shaping the words and hoping John’s looking; fuck ‘im if he is.

The way his brows cant upwards, the meticulously-plucked hairs darting towards his hairline in shock, lets them both know he’s at least adept at reading lips. Asya taps her hand on Frey’s knee, shakes her head imperceptibly. Younger sister breaks eye contact with John, _tsks_ harshly under her breath.

The rest of the sermon goes about as eerily as one would expect, Joseph touching the paleness of his gaze to each and every member of the congregation, eyes tinged near-green thanks to the haze of his always-present glasses. When his eyes dance on Asya’s, they stay there momentarily, a knowing sort of glimmer entering them. The chill along her spine is not imagined that time, not paranoia, but _knowledge_.

Something’s not right with this place. She knows it fully, from the pit of her stomach to the tenderness of her extremities. But his attention moves on, continues tapping the presence of those in the church, their faces going slack-jawed with satiation before they start piling out, some stopping to receive a tap to the forehead from their beloved Father, others pausing to speak with John or one of the other two people resting behind Joseph: a woman with flowers embedded in her intricate dress and a man more boulder than being. 

But Frey knows to whom she’ll speak, bee-lining for John, Asya hot on her heels, ignoring the frisson of discomfort rattling haywire along her synapses. This whole place, these people are _wrong, wrong, wrong_. Frey is nudging people out the way, opening her mouth to voice her annoyances, her own brow furrowed with distaste, when the Father steps in.

His smile is small, mouth amused in a serene sort of way, one hand coming to rest on John’s shoulder (Asya can see the way John winces; it’s not nearly as well-hidden as he hoped and she knows he knows that the prophet is not what he presents as) and the other splayed out to Frey. “Newcomers to the church? How did you enjoy the word?“ His voice is different from what Asya expected; of course, she’s heard him from far away, soft-spoken and melodic. But, up close, she expected some insidious undertone to his every word, to set right the wrongness she feels around him, to give her some outlet for the oozing falsity she feels coming from every pore of this place since she’s set foot in it.

To her disappointment, there is nothing of the sort. He is just a man, a man now putting his bun back to rights, a man nodding at Frey’s complaints quickly becoming mollified, a man putting the hand that was on his brother’s shoulder now on Asya’s sister. She feels like she’s moving through a fog when she grabs Frey’s hand, awakening her from the spell of Joseph’s words. But she’s still treading water, eyes still firmly on his glasses, nodding as if she wasn’t spitting anger and fury naught but a few moments ago.

“She won’t need a protector with us; we are all safe in the light of the Lord.“ John speaks finally, turning his words to Asya, finally acknowledging her in the midst of whatever the hell is transpiring between Frey and Eden’s Gate’s “beloved Father“. 

“I’ll call a cab, Asya; you can head on.“ Frey’s own words are mottled, sluggish as she presses her forehead against Joseph’s, an action that makes the hairs on the back of Asya’s neck stand up, up, up, but her words don’t come to her, her head jerks up and down in a gross parody of proper assent, legs taking her to her car and home before she realizes she’s there.

And that she’s left her baby sister with snakes.

 

 

The changes are subtle, culminating in a loss so profound Asya is furious, vengeful all with a heady weight. For their weekly dinners, Frey comes around, deep brown eyes now tinged with a shimmering green, hands a bit unsteady, gait hesitant. Sitting down to eat is a test of Asya’s fraying nerves, younger sister using this opportunity to “preach to the unconverted“, to “save your soul“. She tells of the everlasting love of the Father, how _Brother John_ has helped her see the pride and greed of her ways, how all things are possible, she simply needed a bit of faith. And that word, even, Asya feels is capitalized, is burdensome with the weight she’s placed on it.

”Thought you weren’t a religious person?” Asya asked once, spoonful of red beans and rice halted halfway to her face.

”Oh, Eden’s Gate is so much more than religion, sweet sister! It’s an experience, it’s soul-saving! After all,” Here, she plays with her hair, pin-straight locks now giving way to the more natural curls she swore up and down she hated. “Souls don’t save themselves!“

When she leaves, it is with that same unsteady gait and there is a lock around Asya’s limbs that only releases once she’s gone. Hands covering her face, she gives over fully to grief.

**Author's Note:**

> so hi again! let me know if there's any glaring goofs I missed and if you have any questions about my dep (who it was a blast to write for at last), feel free to message me on [tumblr](http://cosmosmedica.tumblr.com). you can read the tumblr format of this [here](http://cosmosmedica.tumblr.com/post/178701499890/week-one), if you're so inclined!


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